Archive of Our Own

The lights in Anakin’s quarters were dimmed to a low, amber glow. It was the way he always kept them when he didn’t want to think.

It was pathetic, really, that he’d let the lighting in his own room become a barometer for his emotional state, but here he was.

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since the Hardeen mission ended. Three weeks since Obi-Wan had walked back into his life, alive and unruffled and expecting everything to just go back to normal.

Anakin tightened his grip on the hydrospanner and twisted it with more force than strictly necessary. The droid leg he was theoretically repairing let out a pitiful squeak of protest. He ignored it.

The first week, he’d been in shock. Relief and confusion simultaneously pooled in his gut and he’d almost collapsed when Obi-Wan transformed back to his normal self—well, almost normal; the clean-shaven look was jarring—looking impossibly pristine for a man who’d just faked his own death.

Before the transformation, Anakin had argued. Palpatine had been in his head and Obi-Wan had lied to him and he had lashed out about the lies.

But he was done arguing. The relief was still there, of course—but it was hard to focus on that when the anger had curdled into something uglier. The betrayal of it all. The kind of cold, gnawing hurt that pressed on his chest every night and prevented him from sleeping.

He’d stopped going to the mess hall. Stopped responding to messages that weren’t tactical. Stopped looking at Obi-Wan entirely.

And now it was the third week, and Anakin had perfected the art of avoidance to a science.

He knew Obi-Wan’s schedule better than his own—knew exactly when he’d be in the archives, when he’d be in the Council chambers, when he’d be walking the corridors between the Temple’s east and west wings. Anakin had mapped the routes accordingly, taking the long way to the hangar, timing his trips to the ‘fresher for the brief windows when he knew Obi-Wan would be occupied. He’d even started taking different turbolifts, because the main bank had become too much of a gamble.

Another example of his patheticness, he thought. The lengths he was going to just to avoid a conversation, an encounter, even simple eye contact.

But the alternative was somehow worse.

He knew Obi-Wan was trying. He could feel him trying through the Force—the tentative little pokes, the way Obi-Wan’s presence would hover at the edges of his awareness like a man standing outside a locked door, hand raised to knock.

Obi-Wan had chided Anakin for years for his inability to quiet his thoughts in the Force, but the joke was on him now. Who knew that the white-hot, blinding pain of betrayal was just the push he needed to finally master the art of slamming mental walls up between them?

He didn’t want to feel Obi-Wan’s guilt. He didn’t want to feel anything from Obi-Wan.

Because feeling things from Obi-Wan meant thinking about how he’d felt when Obi-Wan died.

Anakin’s hand slipped. The hydrospanner scraped across the droid leg, leaving an ugly gouge in the plating. He swore under his breath, throwing the tool onto the workbench with a clatter that echoed too loudly in the too-quiet room.

He’d been avoiding his own thoughts as aggressively as he’d been avoiding Obi-Wan. It was easier than way. If he didn’t think about it, if he just kept his hands busy and his mind focused on anything else—mission reports, lightsaber forms, the endless parade of minor repairs that cluttered his quarters—them maybe he wouldn’t have to feel the way his chest had caved in when he’d watched Obi-Wan fall.

I felt him die. He was there, and then he wasn’t. I felt him just… stop.

Anakin pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. Stop it. Stop thinking about it. It’s over. He’s fine. He’s right down the hall, probably sipping tea and reading some dusty old text and pretending everything is normal because that’s what Obi-Wan does, he pretends, he hides behind his composure and his Jedi serenity and he doesn’t—

He didn’t know what it felt like to lose someone like that.

But that wasn’t true, was it? Obi-Wan had lost Qui-Gon. He’d lost—well, Anakin didn’t actually know all the people Obi-Wan had lost, because Obi-Wan didn’t talk about that, did he? He just packed it all away in that tidy little box labeled “Things I Don’t Deal With” and carried on like nothing had happened.

Like Anakin was supposed to do now.

“Kriffing hell,” Anakin muttered, shoving himself away from the workbench. The chair scraped across the floor, and he paced the length of his quarters, running a hand through his hair until it stuck up in wild, disheveled spikes.

The silence in his quarters was unbearable. He’d gotten used to the quiet, but not in a good way—in the way that made every little sound feel like a threat. The ventilation system, the Temple’s engines, the sound of his own breathing.

Three weeks of this. Three weeks of eating alone, training alone, sleeping—well, he wasn’t really sleeping, but that was fine, he’d gone without sleep before. Three weeks of pretending he didn’t notice the way Obi-Wan’s face fell slightly every time Anakin walked past him in the corridor without a word.

Good, a vicious little voice in his head said. Let him feel it. Let him feel a fraction of what I felt.

But the voice wasn’t as loud as it used to be. Now it was just… tired. And underneath the tiredness, there was something that felt dangerously like longing.

Anakin stopped pacing and looked at the droid leg on his workbench. The gouge he’d made stared back at him accusingly. He’d have to replace the whole plating now. Another project to fill the hours.

He’d been tinkering constantly these past few weeks. Fixing things. Taking things apart and putting them back together. It was the only thing that made sense anymore, the only thing where he could see the problem and fix it and know, absolutely, that it was fixed.

But he couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t take apart the memory of Obi-Wan’s body hitting the ground and put it back together into something that didn’t make him want to scream.

Anakin’s gaze drifted to the door. To the hallway beyond it. To the quarters three doors down where Obi-Wan was probably sitting right now, reading his stupid books and drinking his stupid tea and waiting for Anakin to just get over it.

The anger flared again.

He doesn’t care, the voice whispered. If he cared, he would have told you. If he cared, he would have trusted you. If he cared, he wouldn’t have put you through that.

Anakin’s jaw tightened. He picked up the hydrospanner again. The droid leg was beyond saving, but that was fine. He had a bin of salvaged parts in the corner. He could start fresh. He could build something new. Something that wouldn’t betray him.

The silence pressed in around him, thick and suffocating. Anakin sat back down at his workbench, hunched his shoulders, and began to unscrew the damaged plating methodically, angrily.

The hydrospanner slipped again.

Anakin cursed, watching the tool clatter across the workbench and tumble onto the floor. He didn’t pick it up. He just sat there, staring at the half-disassembled droid leg in his hands, and tried to remember why he’d thought this was a good idea.

He’d been at this for hours. The bin of salvaged parts was now a graveyard of failed attempts—twisted wires, stripped screws, components he’d mangled in his frustration and tossed aside. The workbench was a disaster zone. His quarters were a disaster zone. He was a disaster zone.

Anakin dropped the droid leg onto the bench and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. They burned. When was the last time he’d actually slept? He couldn’t remember.

Everything blurred together into a haze of missions and repairs and the endless ache in his chest that refused to fade.

He should eat. He should shower. He should do literally anything other than sit here in the dark, surrounded by the wreckage of his latest attempt to keep his hands busy and his mind quiet.

But moving felt impossible. It felt like if he got up, if he broke the strange trance he’d fallen into, he’d have to actually feel things again. And he was so, so tired of feeling things.

The quiet pressed in around him.

And then there was a knock.

Three, actually.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Anakin’s entire body went rigid.

Those knocks resonated in the Force as I am not here to intrude, but I am here, and I am not leaving until you acknowledge me.

He knew that knock. He’d know it anywhere. He’d been hearing it for thirteen years.

Anakin didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, Obi-Wan would think he was asleep. Maybe he’d go away. Maybe—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Louder this time, and far more insistent.

Anakin’s jaw worked. His hands curled into fists on the workbench. He could feel Obi-Wan’s presence through the Force now, that patient warmth at the edge of his awareness, like a sun he’d been deliberately turning his back on for three weeks.

That sun had veered out of orbit. Gone dark. Died, for all Anakin had known. And now it was back, burning at the edges of his consciousness,

Go away, he thought, as loudly as he could. Just go away. Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. I don’t—

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice was muffled through the door, but it was, unfortunately, unmistakeable. “I know you’re awake. I can feel you brooding from here.”

Anakin’s eye twitched. Brooding. Of course that’s what Obi-Wan called it. Because everything Anakin felt was just dramatics and brooding and immature emotional outbursts that needed to be managed and contained.

He didn’t answer. Maybe if he were silent long enough, Obi-Wan would get the message. He always got the message when Anakin wanted to be left alone. He was annoyingly perceptive about things like that.

But tonight, apparently, he’d decided to be annoyingly stubborn instead.

“I’m not leaving,” Obi-Wan said, his voice taking on that particular edge it got when he’d reached the end of his rope. Yet it contained more patience than Anakin did on a good day.

That angered him even more.

“We need to talk. You can let me in, or I can override the door. But I am coming in.”

Anakin’s blood went hot. Override the door? In his own quarters? The absolute audacity—

“You wouldn’t,” Anakin muttered under his breath, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. Obi-Wan absolutely would. He’d done it before. He’d do it again. He had no respect for boundaries when he decided something was important.

Three weeks of silence, and now he decided it was important?

The door hissed open.

Anakin whipped around, heart pounding, fury surging through him like a wave. Obi-Wan stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. His robes were rumbled, his hair slightly disheveled—the first sign Anakin had seen that the past few weeks might have been affecting him, too.

But he didn't care. He didn't want to see signs. He wanted Obi-Wan to go away and leave him alone with his carefully maintained walls and his droid parts and his—

“What are you doing here?” Anakin’s voice came out flat and hostile, exactly the way he’d been practicing for three weeks.

Obi-Wan stepped into the room, and the door slid shut behind him, sealing them in together. The space suddenly felt much, much smaller.

“I’m here to talk to you,” Obi-Wan said, his voice the pinnacle of Jedi composure. Controlled in that way that always made Anakin want to scream. “Something we should have done weeks ago.”

Anakin turned back to his workbench. Picked up the hydrospanner. Pretended he was interested in the droid leg again. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Clearly,” Obi-Wan said dryly, and Anakin could hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “Which is precisely why I’m here. You’ve been giving me the silent treatment for three weeks, Anakin. I’ve been patient. I’ve given you space. But I’m not going to let you wallow in this forever.”

Wallow. Like it was a choice. Like Anakin was just choosing to feel like someone had taken a lightsaber to his chest.

Anakin’s grip tightened on the hydrospanner. “I’m not wallowing.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“I’d call it not wanting to talk to you.” Anakin finally turned to face him, and he let Obi-Wan see the full force of his anger—the hard set of his jaw, the blaze in his eyes, the way his entire body was coiled tight like a spring. “That's allowed, isn't it? I don't have to talk to you just because you decided I should be over it by now.”

Obi-Wan's expression morphed into something Anakin couldn't quite comprehend. Something complicated passed across his face—hurt, maybe, or frustration. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that age-old repression. “I never said you should be ‘over it.’ I said we need to talk about it.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Anakin laughed, sharp and hollow. He turned back to his workbench, grabbing the droid leg and pretending to examine it. Anything to avoid looking at Obi-Wan’s face. “You made a choice. You faked your death. You let me think you were dead. End of story.”

“It’s not the end of the story, and you know it.”

“No, I really don’t.” Anakin slammed the droid leg down, the sound echoing through the room. “Because you never tell me anything, do you? You just make your decisions, and I have to live with them. I always have to live with them.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw tightened. “I told you it was a mission—”

“You told me nothing!” Anakin spun around, his control finally cracking. “You died, Obi-Wan. I felt you die. I held your—” His voice caught, and he swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “Ahsoka was crying. We held your body. We sat there in the dirt with your blood on our hands, and I thought—” He broke off, shaking his head violently. “You don’t get to just walk in here and say it was for the good of the Republic like that makes it okay.”

Obi-Wan’s expression softened, just barely. “Anakin, I—”

“Don’t.” Anakin held up a hand, stepping back. “Don’t give me that look. Don’t pretend like you understand what that was like for me. You don’t. You can’t. Because you weren’t the one left behind.”

The words were possibly too heavy and accusatory, but Anakin didn’t care.

There was something to be said about the shift in perspective when you felt your best friend’s heart stop beneath your hands, when he died in your arms and then came back from the dead acting like your heart hadn’t stopped too. Like your lives weren’t intertwined since the moment you shook hands in the Jedi Temple, like you wouldn’t lose a limb for him. Like you hadn’t already.

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed, his posture shifting with a slight straightening of his shoulders, a subtle tightening around his mouth. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be left behind?”

Anakin scoffed. “That’s not what I—”

“Because I do.” Obi-Wan’s voice was dangerously quiet now. “I’ve been left behind more times than I care to count. I watched my master die in front of me. I watched—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “I know exactly what it feels like to lose someone. So don’t stand there and tell me I don’t understand.”

Anakin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes! Because you chose this!” Anakin was shouting now, his voice raw and ragged. “You chose to put me through that! You could have told me the truth. You could have trusted me. But you didn’t. You never do. You just—you keep things from me, you shut me out, and then you act surprised when I’m angry about it!”

“I was trying to protect you—”

“Stop saying that!” Anakin exclaimed. “Stop using that as an excuse for everything. You’re not protecting me, Obi-Wan. You’re hurting me. You always hurt me, and you don’t even see it.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Obi-Wan stepped closer, his voice rising slightly. “What do you want from me, Anakin? Do you want me to grovel? Do you want me to apologize a thousand times? Because I will. I’ve already apologized. I’ll do it again. But I can’t undo what happened. I can’t go back and change the mission. So tell me—what do you actually want?”

“I want you to care!”

Obi-Wan’s jaw dropped, as if he had a retort prepared for whatever he had thought Anakin was about to say, then had to scrap it because Anakin had subverted his expectations.

A sadistic feeling of satisfaction rose in Anakin’s chest. I’m not as predictable as you think, he thought.

The silence stretched uncomfortably, electrically. Obi-Wan’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Anakin had never seen him at such a complete loss for words. It should have felt like a victory.

It didn’t.

“Care,” Obi-Wan finally repeated, his voice strangled. “You want me to care.”

“That’s what I said.” Anakin crossed his arms, defensive, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Is that so hard to believe? That I might want the person who’s supposed to be my partner to actually give a kriff about me?”

Obi-Wan stared at him. And then, slowly, the shock melted away into something far more dangerous.

Something that looked like hurt.

“After everything,” Obi-Wan said quietly, and his voice was trembling now, barely controlled. “After everything I’ve done for you. Every mission, every lesson, every night I stayed up worrying about you. Every time I bent the rules, broke the Code, put my reputation on the line—” He stepped closer, his eyes blazing. “After all of that, you stand here and tell me I don’t care?”

Anakin’s bravado flickered. “That’s not what I—”

“That’s exactly what you said.” Obi-Wan’s voice was rising now, cracking around the edges. “You want me to care. As if I haven’t spent thirteen years—thirteen years—dedicating my entire life to you. As if I haven’t sacrificed everything for you. My time, my peace, my standing in the Order—”

“Your standing?” Anakin laughed bitterly. “That’s what you’re worried about? Your reputation?”

“I’m worried about you!” Obi-Wan shouted, and the sound of it—Obi-Wan shouting—made Anakin stumble back a step.

Obi-Wan was shaking. His hands were trembling at his sides, his chest heaving, his seemingly-effortless mask of Jedi composure shattered into a thousand pieces.

Anakin had never seen him like this once, not in thirteen years.

A deafening silence followed. Obi-Wan stood there, breathing hard, his eyes wild and unblinking. He looked, for the first time in Anakin’s memory, completely unraveled.

And then he started walking.

And it was a different stride than Anakin was used to seeing from him. Not a casual step forward or the pacing he sometimes did when he was trying to make a point. The way his boots hid the floor was predatory, and the way his gaze fixed on Anakin was purposeful, like he was a man on a mission.

Anakin’s back hit the workbench. He hadn’t even realized he’d been backing up.

“Obi-Wan—” Anakin started, his voice suddenly unsteady. ‘What are you—”

Obi-Wan didn’t answer. Instead, he just kept moving, closing the distance between them until there was nowhere left for Anakin to go. The edge of the workbench dug into the small of his back, and Obi-Wan was right there, so close Anakin could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the rapid pulse beating in his throat.

“Obi-Wan.” Anakin’s voice shook. “What are you doing?”

Obi-Wan’s hands came up, but they didn’t hit him or shove him like he half-expected. They grabbed. His fingers fisted in the collar of Anakin’s tunics, twisting the fabric, and for one breathless moment, Anakin thought he was about to be thrown across the room.

And then Obi-Wan kissed him.

Softness and gentility had long since gone out the window, so the kiss was furious, tongue and teeth and wandering hands. Obi-Wan kissed him like he was trying to prove a point, like he could physically force Anakin to understand what he couldn’t say out loud.

Anakin’s brain short-circuited.

He made a sound that was something between a gasp and a moan as his hands came up instinctively to grip Obi-Wan’s shoulders. But he didn’t push him away. He couldn’t. His body had betrayed him completely, melting into the kiss despite every confused thought screaming in his head.

Obi-Wan’s mouth was relentless, hungry, and Anakin kissed him back with just as much ferocity because this was—this was Obi-Wan—and he had never fully allowed himself to imagine what this might feel like.

Obi-Wan bit his lower lip, just hard enough to sting, and Anakin gasped. The sound seemed to snap something in Obi-Wan, because he pulled back just far enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against Anakin’s, his breath coming to him in labored pants.

“That’s how much I care,” Obi-Wan growled, his voice rough. “Do you understand now? Do you finally understand?”

Anakin stared at him, wide-eyed, his lips tingling and his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. Obi-Wan’s pupils were dilated wide, his cheeks flushed, his composure completely and utterly and deliciously destroyed. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of Obi-Wan’s chest against his own, could feel the trembling in the hands that were still twisted in his tunic. His own hands were still gripping Obi-Wan’s shoulders, though he had no recollection of putting them there.

He stared at him.

Obi-Wan stared back.

His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed. His hair, already slightly disheveled from growing out the horrific buzzcut, had fallen further out of place, a strand dangling across his forehead in a way that was so uncharacteristically messy that Anakin couldn’t look away.

He looked nothing like the Obi-Wan Anakin knew.

This wasn’t the composed Jedi Master who always had a witty retort and a cup of tea. This wasn’t the patient teacher who guided him through katas and lectures. This was someone unguarded and real—a man who had just kissed him like the galaxy was ending and meant every second of it.

And somehow, impossibly, Anakin had never wanted to kiss him more.

“Obi-Wan,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” Obi-Wan said roughly, cutting him off.

Anakin blinked, watching Obi-Wan’s hands that were still twisted in the front of his tunic. The fabric was bunched and wrinkled, and Anakin could feel the tension in Obi-Wan’s fingers, like he was holding on for dear life.

“What?” Anakin asked, genuinely confused.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Anakin frowned. “Like what?”

“Like you’re surprised.” The word came out bitter and almost wounded, and something twisted painfully behind Anakin’s heart.

“I am surprised.” His voice came out smaller than he intended. “Obi-Wan, you just—I didn’t think you—” He trailed off, unable to articulate the jumble of thoughts crowding his brain.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. “Of course you are.” There was something almost painfully embarrassed about the way he said it, something vulnerable and self-conscious that Anakin had never heard from him before. The great Obi-Wan Kenobi, reduced to embarrassment because he’d kissed his former Padawan. And that—more than the anger, more than the kiss itself—made Anakin’s heart stumble.

“You just kissed me,” Anakin said, because his brain seemed incapable of producing any other thought.

“Yes, Anakin. I was present.” The flatness in his voice didn’t hide the hint of exasperation underneath it that was so achingly and endearingly familiar.

“With your tongue.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped open, and Anakin couldn’t help but laugh. It was barely more than a breath, and it still sounded strange coming out of him after three weeks of silence, but it escaped anyway. Obi-Wan stared at him as if he’d just committed some profound offense, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You kissed me.”

“I am aware.”

“You really kissed me.” Anakin couldn’t stop saying it. The words kept tumbling out, half-disbelieving, half-giddy, because this was Obi-Wan and he had just kissed him and Anakin’s world had tilted so far off its axis he didn’t know which way was up anymore.

Obi-Wan’s grip tightened in his robes, and Anakin’s laughter faded. Because suddenly, beneath the embarrassment and irritation, there was something else in Obi-Wan’s expression. Something frightened, but not of Anakin, of himself.

Anakin’s chest tightened, something painful and hopeful lodged behind his ribs.

“You meant it?” he asked quietly, damn near begged, because he couldn’t bear it if it were just a joke, or a mistake, or some weird, sadistic Jedi deescalation tactic Obi-Wan convinced himself he had to perform. “Tell me you meant it.”

Obi-Wan didn’t answer, and that anger started making its way up Anakin’s throat again, ready to manifest past his lips in a snarl or a growl or possibly a sob. Because if Obi-Wan had done this just to shut him up, just to prove a point and then take it all back—

But then Obi-Wan exhaled, a long, shaky breath that seemed to always accompany Obi-Wan when he was about to reprimand Anakin for saying something ridiculous.

“Yes.”

The word was almost inaudible, barely more than a whisper against Anakin’s lips.

Anakin swallowed, his throat tight. “Why?”

Obi-Wan gave him a look that he had definitely seen before, something so incredulous that in any other circumstance, Anakin might have laughed. It was the look Obi-Wan got when Anakin asked something exceptionally stupid, like whether he could replace his lightsaber’s emitter with a repurposed plasma nozzle, or whether the Council would notice if he “borrowed” a starfighter for a quick trip to the Outer Rim.

“Because you wouldn’t listen,” Obi-Wan said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

Anakin’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s your explanation? That’s your grand justification for kissing me senseless?”

“I tried talking to you.” Obi-Wan’s tone was defensive now, almost petulant, and Anakin had never heard him sound quite so young. “For three weeks. You gave me the silent treatment."

“You called me a brooding child.”

“I did not.”

“You implied it.”

“I may have implied it.” Obi-Wan’s mouth twitched, and Anakin could see him fighting a smile. “Said implication was perhaps a bit unkind.”

Anakin snorted, and Obi-Wan smiled, and for one strange, fragile second, it felt almost normal. Like they were back in the training salles, bickering over form and technique, the easy rhythm of their partnership restored.

But then Anakin remembered the body on the ground. The blood. Ahsoka’s tear-filled gaze. The way Obi-Wan’s body had gone limp in his arms, all that strength and life just… gone.

His smile disappeared.

“So you kissed me because you couldn’t figure out how to talk to me?” The words came out sharper than he intended, edged with the hurt that had been festering for three weeks.

Obi-Wan’s expression softened, the defensiveness draining out of him. “No.” He looked down, briefly, at Anakin’s matching fistful of his robes—the way Anakin was still holding onto him like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. “I kissed you because I was tired of talking around it.”

Anakin’s heart thudded, insistent against his ribs. “Around what?”

Obi-Wan looked back at him, and Anakin braced himself for another grand confession, something else terrifying and definitive, another declaration that would upend everything he thought he knew. But instead, Obi-Wan simply said, “You.”

Anakin stared. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know.” There was a wry twist to Obi-Wan’s mouth, almost apologetic.

“You’re being incredibly unhelpful.”

“I know that too.” Obi-Wan sighed, and some of the tension finally left his shoulders. His hands loosened their grip on Anakin’s tunic, though he didn’t let go entirely. His fingers remained curled in the fabric, like he was reluctant to sever the contact completely.

Anakin should have been annoyed. He should have demanded more—a real explanation, something concrete that would make all of this make sense. But warmth was spreading through his chest, pushing out the anger and hurt, and when finally released his robes, Anakin immediately missed the pressure.

“I care about you,” Obi-Wan said quietly.

Anakin swallowed. “I know.”

“No.” Obi-Wan shook his head slowly. “You don’t.” The words were quiet, but there was no anger in them now. “I care about you more than I should.”

Anakin’s breath caught in his throat as the words hung in the air, loaded, and he didn’t know what to do with them. Obi-Wan looked away, his gaze drifting to the cluttered workbench, the half-dismantled droid parts, the mess Anakin had made in his attempt to be a proper Jedi and avoid feeling anything.

“I have spent years telling myself that it was my responsibility to keep you safe,” Obi-Wan continued, his voice low. “To guide you. To protect you.” His mouth twisted, bitter and self-aware. “And perhaps that was easier than admitting that I simply couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Anakin didn’t know what to say. For thirteen years, Obi-Wan had been the person who always knew what to say, the one with the perfect quip or the gentle correction or the reassuring word. Seeing him struggle now, fumbling through words that clearly cost him something to speak, felt strangely intimate. Like going back in time to watch a master swordsman pick up a blade for the first time.

“You almost did,” Anakin whispered, his voice cracking on the words. “I almost—I almost lost myself.” The admission came out before he could stop it. “When you died. When I thought you were dead. I didn’t—I couldn’t—” He stopped, shaking his head, unable to finish the sentence.

Obi-Wan’s eyes met his. “I know.” His voice was soft and almost reverent.

“You almost left me.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were dead. I thought—I felt you go. I felt the moment you stopped being there. And I couldn’t—I didn’t think I could survive it.”

“I know.” Obi-Wan’s voice was barely a whisper now, and there was something in his eyes that looked almost like grief. Grief for what he’d put Anakin through. Grief for the choice he’d made.

Anakin swallowed, forcing himself to meet Obi-Wan's gaze. "Promise me," he said, his voice cracking. "Promise me you'll never do that again. Promise me you'll find another way. Promise me."

Something inscrutable passed over Obi-Wan’s face, a flicker of emotion too quick to identify. “I’ll try,” he said finally.

Anakin stared at him. “That’s not good enough.”

A tiny, helpless smile appeared on Obi-Wan’s face, small and wry in a way that cracked Anakin’s heart open. “No,” Obi-Wan admitted. “I suppose it isn’t.”

Anakin’s hands slowly loosened from his shoulders. He should have stepped away, but he didn’t. He should have put distance between them, given himself room to think, to process. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His body refused to move, rooted to the spot by gravity and longing.

Neither did Obi-Wan. He stood there, close enough that Anakin could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that the scent of his tea and his soap and him filled Anakin’s senses. His gaze dropped briefly to Anakin’s mouth, barely a second, but Anakin noticed anyway. His heartbeat responded in kind.

“Obi-Wan.”

“Yes?”

“You're doing it again.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, and there was a remnant of that familiar amusement in his eyes. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrow climbed higher. “I should certainly hope so. You're standing directly in front of me. It would be rather difficult to look anywhere else.”

“You know what I mean.”

Obi-Wan paused, then smiled. It was small and almost shy, and Anakin had seen that smile maybe five times in thirteen years. And it was devastating.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan murmured, his voice dropping to something that flamed in Anakin’s core. “That.”

Anakin’s stomach flipped. “Yeah.”

“Hmm,” Obi-Wan’s hand rose to his beard, his fingers stroking thoughtfully along his jaw as if he were contemplating a particularly difficult tactical problem. “I suppose I am.”

“Why?” The question slipped out before Anakin could stop it.

Obi-Wan’s eyes returned to him warmly. “Because,” he said softly, “I rather think I might like to kiss you again.”

Anakin’s entire brain stopped functioning. Every thought and argument and wall he’d built over the past three weeks—gone. Just gone. “Oh,” he managed. It was the only word his brain could produce.

Obi-Wan’s smile widened, a flash of that familiar mischief breaking through the vulnerability. “Is that all you have to say?”

Anakin shook his head, his hands moving of their own accord. They grabbed the front of Obi-Wan’s robes and pulled him back in.

This kiss was different. There was no anger behind it, no desperation, no attempt to prove anything. It was a choice. A decision to lean in and let himself want.

Obi-Wan made a soft sound against his lips—something between a sigh and a gasp—and his hands settled around Anakin's waist, pulling him closer, anchoring him in place. The kiss was slower this time, deeper, like they had all the time in the galaxy and nowhere else to be.

It tasted like hope and forgiveness and the beginning of something neither of them had ever dared to imagine.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged, Anakin laughed. “We’re going to be okay,” he whispered. “Aren’t we?”

Obi-Wan's thumb traced a slow circle on his hip, grounding and reassuring. "I think so, dear," he murmured. "I think we might be."

And when Anakin kissed him again—soft and sweet and oh-so-fulfilling—he finally understood that whatever happened next, they weren’t going back to the way things had been before. They couldn’t. The old normal was gone, shattered by confessions and kisses and hopefully more.

That, and maybe—just maybe—communication wasn’t the worst thing in the galaxy.